


Laced

by MiaCooper



Series: Service [1]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Corset Fetish, Corsetry, F/F, F/M, First Time, Non-Linear Narrative, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 05:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7878856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiaCooper/pseuds/MiaCooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A diplomatic ritual goes spectacularly awry when Janeway finds herself breathless in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is rampant smut and I should probably say a couple of hundred hail marys for writing it, even though I’m not actually Catholic.
> 
> Set lateish in Season 3.
> 
>  **Disclaimer**  
>  If Paramount wants to claim this, they’re welcome to it.

She bends fractionally from the waist, her fingers clenching on the edge of the vanity table as Leda, the Latavine maidservant, tugs with controlled strength at her stays. Her breath hitches slightly as the corset tightens around her ribcage, constricting her lungs, pushing her breasts upward. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and sees that her lips are parted, her eyes half-lidded.  
  
She remembers dressing for her holonovel last week, the first time she’d activated it since the Bothan attack. She’d dressed inside the holodeck that time, not wanting the crew to see her walking through Voyager’s corridors in the full skirts and elaborate hairstyle the program required. She had thought it wasn’t strictly captainly; hadn’t wanted the crew to catch a glimpse into her entertainment preferences, and by extension her private life.  
  
She wonders if this is a moot point now.  
  
The dress she wore to play the Victorian-era governess in her holoprogram was far more modest than the one laid over the love-seat in this chamber – the one she will put on when Leda and Ilona have finished lacing her into her undergarment. When the holographic maid had dressed her, yanking the corset as tight as the holodeck safeties would allow, she’d felt an unexpected frisson, a rush of blood to parts of her she usually tries not to think about. She’d put it down to anticipation at running the program, but she remembers how the Lord Burleigh character had kissed her, how she’d responded, and she wonders now if that frisson and her eager reaction to the kiss had been connected.  
  
Because right now, as Leda pulls the laces tighter, ever tighter, she cannot deny that she is hopelessly aroused.  
  
=/\=  
  
It’s almost laughable, really, the rituals she’s required to satisfy in order to establish trading relations with the Latavine.  
  
Chakotay finds them fascinating: a warp-capable, technologically advanced society obsessed with anachronistic social customs. B’Elanna takes immediately against them, and Kathryn understands why: the Latavine are intrigued, in a slightly scandalised way, that Voyager’s captain and chief engineer are both female. Such a thing would not happen in Latavan society, where women of the working class hold roles such as teacher, nurse or servant. No Latavine woman would sully her hands with engine grease, and no Latavine woman would ever be considered capable of a leadership role.  
  
But Kathryn, fond as she is of her gothic romances, can also admit – if only to herself – that she’s not immune to Latavan’s appeal. Women may be shepherded into the kind of gender roles human society long ago abandoned, but they are also valued, even treasured. Rape and domestic violence are almost unheard-of on Latavan, and not only because the punishment for either offence is a death so drawn-out, so torturous a Cardassian might blanch at inflicting it, but because the Latavine genuinely believe their women are to be protected at all costs, indulged, even adored. Kathryn doesn’t need or want protecting and indulgence isn’t in her nature, but she has to concede that she’s somewhat susceptible to the charms of adoration.  
  
When the Latavine Chancellor first answered Voyager’s hail, he addressed his greetings to Chakotay. Her first officer understood before Kathryn did, and quietly positioned himself behind her shoulder, smilingly deflecting the Chancellor’s enquiries to her. To give the Chancellor credit, he recovered quickly, and a matter of hours later Kathryn, accompanied by Tuvok, finds herself perched on a velvet-covered chair in a palatial hall, drinking sweet spiced tea and listening to the Chancellor outline the first contact ritual.  
  
“Three nights?” she repeats, somewhat faintly.  
  
She has endured unusual first contacts before. The Kishla were particularly memorable; an arachnoid species, they had refused Voyager passage through their space until the blood, sweat and tears of a representative of each race on the ship had been thoroughly sampled and catalogued – literally. Kathryn had firmly volunteered to represent humanity. Fortunately for her, the Kishla had found Bolian and Talaxian secretions more intriguing than human, and had spent little time on her. What the Chancellor is describing is nowhere near as bizarre as the Kishla’s ritual, although she suspects it could prove disquieting in an entirely different way.  
  
Still, three nights out of her comfort zone is a small price to pay for several weeks of peaceful travel, and so she agrees.  
  
=/\=  
  
Leda, finally satisfied, ties off the laces and helps Kathryn to balance as Ilona carries over the dress. Kathryn steps into it carefully, feeling the heavy nap of the velvet caress her breasts over the thin chemise, feeling the bodice hug her corseted ribs as Ilona buttons it along her spine. Leda reaches up under the skirts to tug down the hem of her chemise, smooths her hands over the bodice, twitches the skirts into place.  
  
They guide her to sit before the mirror, where Ilona curls and piles up her hair as Leda dusts her face with powder and paints her lips a soft pink. When they’ve finished they help her step into a pair of low-heeled shoes. Kathryn picks up her commbadge, wondering self-consciously if there’s actually enough fabric to fix it to her bodice, but Ilona shakes her head and hides it in a fold of her skirt instead. Despite herself, Kathryn admits her dressing-maids are right not to mar their careful work with Starfleet technology.  
  
Ilona opens the door, gesturing for her to follow, and Kathryn gathers her skirts in her hands and steps into the hallway. The muffled tap of her heels on the inlaid wooden floor is out of time with the accelerated beat of her pulse. She tries to breathe deeply to calm herself but the constriction of her corset forces her to sip air rather than drink it. Her head feels light from insufficient oxygen. She tries to ignore the way it seems to heighten other sensations: the firm, unyielding pressure of the boning against her ribs, the weight and heft of her skirts along her thighs, the rub of velvet on her otherwise almost naked breasts.  
  
They reach a pair of tall, imposing doors, carved and inlaid with a design Kathryn studies to give herself focus, then wishes she hadn’t as the images depicted can only be described as bacchanalian. She’s still blushing when the doors swing inward and her handmaids fade into the corridor.  
  
She steps in, and the flourish of trumpets that accompanies the announcement of her presence embarrasses her deeply, though she hopes she’s managed not to show it. Chancellor Jarin bows low in front of her and she dips him the curtsey Ilona made her practice in the dressing room. Then the Chancellor offers his arm and she takes it, letting him lead her to the banquet table.  
  
=/\=  
  
“The Latavine protocols are exacting, Captain,” Tuvok says, folding his hands and regarding her from the other side of her ready room desk. “Chancellor Jarin has advised me that the greeting ritual dates back several centuries and failure to follow it completely will cause great offence.”  
  
Kathryn rubs at her forehead and puts down the PADD she’s been studying with a sigh. “I’ve been through strange first contacts before, Tuvok, but I have to admit this one is a little unsettling. Still, what choice do I have? We need their pergium, and there’s no other source of it for light years around.”  
  
He regards her for a moment, then asks, “Would you consider it less unsettling if I took Commander Chakotay’s place?”  
  
She looks up at him sharply, considers pretending not to understand, thinks better of it and can’t help smiling. “The rules are clear, aren’t they? Only the highest-ranking officers will be acceptable to the Latavine.”  
  
“Our rules are also clear,” Tuvok responds. “The absence of the command team from the ship for three days and nights contravenes Starfleet protocols.”  
  
“We’re orbiting a friendly planet,” she counters. “As long as we comply with Latavan conventions, we’re safe.” She pushes back from the desk and moves up to her sitting area to stare out at the planet below. Tuvok follows silently and she glances back at him. “Don’t worry, Tuvok. I’ll make sure I’m adequately prepared. And besides, it’s not like we’re walking into a pit of vipers. Chakotay and I are honoured guests; we’ll be wined, dined and treated with deference. How bad can it be?”  
  
The slight quirk of Tuvok’s eyebrow tells her that her feigned nonchalance hasn’t fooled him one bit.  
  
=/\=  
  
Of the senior staff, only B’Elanna and Tuvok have declined the Latavine’s invitation to the banquet – Tuvok has opted to take bridge duty and Chakotay claims B’Elanna’s reaction is too impolite to repeat to the Captain. About half the crew are here as well; Kathryn glances around, finding it strange to see her officers dressed in gowns and frock-coats instead of uniforms. She smiles as Kes and Neelix approach. Neelix looks like a rainbow trout in his rich brocade waistcoat. She notices that the blush-pink gown Kes wears is considerably less revealing than her own, and wishes briefly that she had a shawl to cover her exposed décolletage. She catches sight of Tom, sees his eyes widen when he takes in her appearance, feels the flush rise over her chest and turns away.  
  
The Chancellor helps her to her seat at the small round table, raised slightly at the head of the room. As his honoured guest, she takes the place at his right. His wife, Savia, sits on his other side, next to Chakotay, who’s engaged in conversation with Savia when Kathryn slides into her seat to his left. Jarin explains the ritual of the banquet again. Kathryn finds it no less unnerving upon repetition, and as disquieting as the ceremony is going to be tonight, she knows it’s only going to get worse.  
  
A bell chimes, and Savia breaks off from talking to Chakotay and stands, raising her arms to the room. “Nobles of Latavan, I greet you,” she intones. “Honoured guests, I greet you. It is not often we of Latavan are graced with visitors from other worlds. We welcome you, Voyagers, and invite you to partake of our world’s bounty.” She claps her hands twice, sharply. “Let us begin,” she calls, and the banquet hall fills with the sounds of polite applause, muting into conversation. She sits, and Chakotay turns to Kathryn for the first time.  
  
He starts to smile, and then he registers the exposed length of her neck below her elaborately piled-up hair, the way her breasts almost spill over the cinched velvet bodice, and his smile disappears. She’s trapped by the fierce hunger in his eyes, feels her breath catch in her throat. She hasn’t seen him look at her like this since she stood on an idyllic planet, wrapped in a towel with droplets glistening on her bare shoulders. Her face heats up. She wants to run from the room, hide under the table, reach for him and pull him hard against her. Her fingers tighten on her napkin and she wishes, oh, she wishes she was anywhere but here.  
  
=/\=  
  
“Sit down, Chakotay.”  
  
She waves him to the couch, waits until he sits, hands him the PADD and deliberately takes the single chair rather than sit beside him. “Read it,” she invites him, and watches him surreptitiously as he does. There’s a flash of surprise when, she assumes, he gets to the part that made her inhale sharply on first reading, and then he carefully schools his face blank. Apart from another brief tightening of his jaw, he remains impassive until he finishes and looks up at her.  
  
“Well?” she says impatiently when he remains silent. “What do you think?”  
  
He puts the PADD on the coffee table. “About what, exactly?” he asks carefully.  
  
Kathryn gestures to the PADD in irritation. “Don’t be coy, Commander.”  
  
He looks down to hide it, but she can see his dimples appear. “If you’re asking me if I mind the idea of you serving me, then, no, Captain. I don’t mind at all.”  
  
She wants to slap the smirk right off his face.  
  
“And in a way,” he adds, not even trying to hide the grin now, “it answers a question I asked you some time ago.”  
  
She frowns in confusion, then realises what he’s referring to and glares at him.  
  
Chakotay laughs, then takes pity on her. “It’s an unusual first contact situation, Captain, but we’ve had worse. I’m sure we’re both professional enough to handle it.”  
  
“I’m sure we are.” Kathryn stands briskly and moves toward the replicator. “Report to Transporter Room Two at 1800 hours, Commander. The Latavine have asked you to arrive early in order to prepare you for the banquet. The senior staff and the other crewmembers who’ll be attending the banquet will be there half an hour later.”  
  
“Including you, Captain?” Chakotay unfolds himself from the couch, heading past her toward the door.  
  
Kathryn turns from the replicator, cradling her coffee. “No. I’ve been asked to arrive at 1700.” She scowls. “Apparently my appearance requires special attention.”  
  
Chakotay’s grin broadens again. “Then I very much look forward to your appearance, Kathryn,” he says smoothly as he exits onto the bridge.  
  
=/\=  
  
As he looks at her now, Kathryn allows herself a small moment to enjoy the way that smile has been wiped completely off his face. But then a server places a carafe of dark-red wine on the table and Savia rises, nodding slightly to Kathryn, and she can’t help the double-thump of her pulse as she understands the ritual is about to begin.  
  
She watches carefully as Savia moves to Jarin’s left, pours some wine into his glass, then kneels beside his chair and holds the glass up to him. Jarin takes it, sips, puts down the glass and briefly brushes his fingertips over Savia’s cheek before she returns to her seat.  
  
_It’s fine_ , Kathryn thinks as she rises to fill Chakotay’s glass. _It’s nothing but a ritual_. She drops to her knees and offers up the glass, avoiding his eye. He takes it, drinks, and she feels the light touch of his fingers on her cheekbone and shivers despite herself. “Thank you,” she hears him whisper. She slides back into her chair, not looking at him. Savia smiles at her and she tries to smile back.  
  
The server reappears, filling the women’s wineglasses and placing a dish of Latavine canapés in the centre of the table. Kathryn studies them: small, round pieces of what look like rye bread, topped with some kind of mousse and a sliver of something green she assumes is a herb. She watches Chakotay whisper an enquiry to Savia, who explains that the mousse is made from a native root, and that there will be fish courses offered throughout the banquet, but no meat. He straightens in relief and Kathryn realises he’s been worried he’ll be forced to choose between offending the Latavine by refusing their food and going against his own beliefs. She sends him a quick reassuring smile.  
  
Savia gets up from her chair again, picks up a pair of tongs and deftly manoeuvres a canapé onto a small plate. She holds the plate on flattened palms, curtseying deeply as she offers it to Jarin. He takes it and slides his fingers along her jawline. Kathryn clenches her fingers briefly below the table, then stands to copy her.  
  
Her hands are shaking slightly, but she manages to manipulate the tongs to place the appetiser on Chakotay’s plate. As she curtseys to him, holding the plate before her, she can’t help but wonder what her crew are making of this performance. She knows there have been rumours about her and her XO since their return from the quarantine planet several months ago, and tonight is hardly going to dampen them. The thought makes her falter and she almost drops the plate before Chakotay has hold of it.  
  
“All right?” he whispers. She meets his gaze and reads concern, a little wariness, and something else, carefully-shielded. She nods, and watches without flinching as his hand comes up to her face. She feels his thumb stroke along her jaw and closes her eyes briefly. _This is nothing_ , she reminds herself. _You can handle it_.  
  
She barely tastes her canapé; barely remembers eating it, or any of the courses that follow. What she does remember, too vividly, is each and every part of the ritual. A curtsey, a dip of her head, an offering, followed by a touch on her face, her collarbone, her shoulder. By the end of the meal she’s trembling, her skin over-sensitised from each brief caress. She catches Chakotay’s eyes and sees barely-contained heat reflected back at her.  
  
Then Savia stands and claps her hands again. “Nobles of Latavan, honoured guests; we thank the gods of bounty for this feast. In accordance with tradition, we now begin the _jasalin_.”  
  
Kathryn has watched the holovid and studied the steps; she has a dancer’s training, and she knows from a comment B’Elanna once made that Chakotay is no slouch on the dance floor. On paper, the _jasalin_ is sedate and courtly. But as Kathryn watched the vid, she took note of the brushing of hands, the clasping of waists during the turns, and she began to suspect that behind its demure façade, the _jasalin_ is nothing more than a mating ritual.  
  
=/\=  
  
She takes a moment, finally, to really look at him as he stands to lead her to the dance floor. He wears the white cravat, long brocade frock-coat and breeches the other men are wearing, but the genteel elegance of his clothing contrasts with his broad shoulders, his dark skin and tattoo to make him look ever so slightly feral. Although, she reasons, that could be because of the way he’s looking at her. She tries to even out her breathing as her gaze slides away.  
  
They follow Savia and Jarin to the parqueted centre of the floor where a number of other couples will eventually join them after the first dance. Kathryn moves opposite Chakotay and glances at Savia, imitating her position – a bowed head, a slightly bent knee, the fingers of one hand holding out her skirts. The music begins and Kathryn starts in surprise; she’d expected something light and lilting, but this is dark and smooth, an oboe-like instrument carrying the melody and duelling with something stringed like a cello, and beneath it all an almost tribal drumbeat. Then Savia begins to move, stalking in a measured circle around Jarin, and Kathryn copies her, letting the music guide her movements as she circles Chakotay.  
  
She remembers the steps of the dance without needing to watch the other couple, but glancing at them gives her sufficient reason to avoid locking gazes with Chakotay, and she needs that. She’s afraid, as the hypnotic drumbeat guides her steps, as the slide of his palm against her waist heats her blood, that if she looks at him she’ll forget everything else. She needs to remember why she’s here. She needs to remember that she’s being observed. Most of all, she needs to remember who she is, and who he is, and why this night, this dance, is so dangerous.  
  
=/\=  
  
“I was impressed with your performance of the _jasalin_ , Captain,” Jarin tells her as he ushers her to a seat beside the large picture window. His office is three times the size of her ready room, the windows open to let in the warm, lazy breeze, and Kathryn feels the tense knot at the back of her neck begin to loosen for the first time since waking. “You and your first officer barely missed a step. Did you practice, or is everyone from your species naturally gifted at dancing?”  
  
“Neither,” Kathryn has to admit. “I learned to dance as a child, and I studied the holovid you sent me. I assume Commander Chakotay did as well.”  
  
Jarin’s eyebrows arch over the mug of _sincha_. “Really,” he says, mildly. “My wife was certain that the pair of you were longtime dance partners.”  
  
“Why’s that?” Kathryn asks politely. She sips the _sincha_ and finds it pleasant, though she’d kill for a cup of coffee.  
  
Jarin doesn’t answer, and Kathryn looks up to find him watching her, his expression slightly guarded. “Perhaps it’s not my place to comment,” he says eventually.  
  
She wants to press for an answer but suspects it might not be one she’s prepared to hear, and so she gives him her diplomatic smile and picks up the PADD. “I understand you’re interested in Voyager’s deflector design,” she begins, and they spend the next hour in negotiation until Savia sweeps through the office doors, Chakotay in her wake.  
  
“Captain Janeway, good morning,” Savia smiles, dipping into a half-curtsey. Unlike her husband, who wears a simple, much more modern-looking suit than the gilded finery of the night before, Savia is dressed in lace and silks, her skirts full and her hair elaborately dressed. Beside her, Kathryn feels frumpy in her uniform. She ignores the sour feeling in her stomach as Savia casually winds her arm through Chakotay’s. “Your first officer has been indulging my curiosity about you,” Savia confides.  
  
“About me?” Kathryn tries to keep her voice light. Savia is perfectly friendly, but her conspiratorial smile sets Kathryn’s teeth on edge. She tells herself it’s because she’s been interrupted at a delicate stage of the trade negotiations, because she’s uncomfortable with being talked about, because she’s never been good at girl talk; but she catches Chakotay looking at her, amusement dancing behind the blandness in his eyes, and in that instant she’s honest enough to acknowledge that it’s because she does not like the way that woman is pawing him. She averts her eyes before he sees the truth in them.  
  
Savia prattles on about Kathryn’s decision to strand her people and Chakotay’s in the Delta quadrant, to merge two crews into one, to give the man she’d been sent to arrest a position of power on her ship. “It’s such a _romantic_ thing to do,” she sighs, and Kathryn, whose attention has been wandering, snaps back to the conversation.  
  
“It was a decision born of practicality,” she corrects.  
  
“And yet it required trust, and a courageous heart.” Savia’s smile is shrewd, and Kathryn abruptly reassesses her impression of the woman. “There’s nothing more romantic than that.”  
  
After last night, this is not the conversation Kathryn wants to be having. She offers Savia a closed-mouth smile. “Commander Chakotay has always proven himself trustworthy. He’s the best first officer I could have asked for.”  
  
“He certainly is devoted to his Captain,” Savia says sweetly, turning slightly toward Chakotay, resting her hand on his chest. Kathryn feels the tension creeping back into her neck.  
  
Chakotay takes a polite step sideways, his smile a little tight. Irritated, Kathryn retorts, “Voyager couldn’t have come this far without Chakotay. And neither could I,” and realises immediately that she’s made a tactical error when Savia’s smile widens.  
  
“I can see the two of you have a very special relationship,” Savia answers silkily. “It certainly was in evidence last night.”  
  
=/\=  
  
His fingers slide down the length of her arm as she turns, and she tries to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other as her hand trails over his shoulders. She completes her circuit and faces him, moving in close, her leg sliding between his as their hips mould together. She catches sight of Savia’s amused eyebrow and quickly looks away. _I’m performing their damned dance_ , she thinks irritably, _what more does the woman want_?  
  
She feels Chakotay’s grip tighten slightly on her waist, pressing against the boned corset, and can’t help the shiver that runs through her. The pulse of the drumbeat slows and, realising the dance is almost over, she allows herself a small sigh of gratitude. She moves away from him, only their fingertips touching as she dips into a curtsey. He bows, and she sees an echo of her own relief in his eyes as he straightens. The music stops.  
  
Beside them, Savia and Jarin are pressed together, she bent slightly backward from the waist, his mouth touching her collarbone. Kathryn glances at Chakotay, perturbed. _That wasn’t in the holovid_.  
  
The other couple move apart, straightening into the conventional form Kathryn and Chakotay have taken, and the watching crowd applauds. “Don’t worry, Captain,” Savia whispers as she takes Kathryn’s hand and leads her back to their table. “You didn’t miss a step. I just can’t resist a little improvisation.” She waits until Kathryn has reached for her glass of water before she adds, “Of course, tomorrow night, you’ll be expected to follow every move Jarin and I make.”  
  
Kathryn chokes on her water.  
  
“Not that I think you, or your handsome partner, will mind,” Savia finishes with a disingenuous smile as she sips her wine.  
  
=/\=  
  
After the banquet, after the _jasalin_ , after she judges diplomacy has been satisfied, she returns to her room, desperate to regain her equilibrium by burying herself in ship’s reports until her eyes grow too heavy to fight off sleep. It hasn’t occurred to her that she’d need help undressing, but Leda and Ilona are waiting for her. Her hair is unwound, her high shoes removed; Ilona holds her arms for balance as Kathryn steps out of the long velvet dress. Then begins the lengthy task of unlacing the corset, and Leda pulls the chemise over her head and smooths a cream that smells like jasmine into her skin. She shrinks back at first, but Leda explains that the cream will soothe her where the boning pressed into her skin, and she hesitates only briefly before acquiescing. She stands naked before the mirror, watching as Leda’s strong hands stroke over her ribs and hips. The other woman’s touch doesn’t linger anywhere, and yet Kathryn finds herself moving against her hands, her back arching as Leda’s fingers slide up under her breasts. In the state she’s in, the state she’s been in all evening, it’s maddening.  
  
Leda twists the lid back onto the bottle of cream and Ilona gives her a fresh chemise to wear to bed, as thin and translucent as the one she wore under her corset, and the two maids leave her alone. She curls up on the window seat with a PADD and tries to concentrate on Tuvok’s security report, but it’s pointless, so she gives up and climbs into bed.  
  
Hours later, she throws off the sheet and turns onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow to stifle her groan. She’d like to blame the Latavine wine for the flush in her cheeks, the energy sparking through her body, but she’s not quite that self-deluded. She thinks of the brush of his hand against her bare shoulder, the heated look in his eyes, the way he felt moving against her as they danced, and it’s all she can do not to touch herself.  
  
It’s not until the early hours that she finally falls into a fitful, restless sleep.


	2. Two

She makes her excuses after the morning’s negotiations with Jarin and escapes to her ship. In her ready room, surrounded by all the reminders of who she is and what she stands for, she breathes deeply for the first time since last night. A conversation with Tuvok and two cups of coffee later, her equilibrium has been restored.  
  
The chime at her door lays it all to waste.  
  
“Enter,” she calls, and Chakotay walks in carrying a PADD.  
  
“Captain,” he acknowledges her. She waves him to the seat opposite her at her desk and he sits.  
  
She takes the PADD he holds out to her and skims his report; he’s negotiated with Savia for the entire crew to each take three days’ shore leave over the course of the next week. “Nicely done, Commander,” she compliments him. “I hope you’ll be taking some leave for yourself.”  
  
“I was hoping to,” he answers. “Savia offered to show me around their cultural museum.”  
  
“You certainly seem to have bonded with her.” Kathryn instantly regrets the waspish tone in her voice.  
  
Chakotay gives her an even look. “You did order me to help you establish diplomatic relations, Captain.”  
  
She ignores him, pretending to read his report.  
  
“As far as alien cultures go,” he says eventually, “I have to admit this is one diplomatic venture I’m enjoying.”  
  
“Apparently so,” she says blandly. She glances briefly at him, just quick enough to see his dimpled smirk before he ducks his head.  
  
“I wasn’t talking about spending time with the Chancellor’s wife,” he says. “I’m talking about the evening ceremonies.”  
  
She makes a non-committal noise.  
  
“Savia did tell me something interesting this morning,” he says casually. “Apparently the banquet and the performance of the _jasalin_ develop over the course of the diplomatic ritual.”  
  
Kathryn finally puts down the PADD and pays attention. “Develop? How, exactly?”  
  
“Well.” Chakotay tugs at his ear. “Let’s just say that for the Latavine, pleasure is an integral part of their society, and they believe that diplomatic relations tend to be more successful when everyone has a really good time.”  
  
She stares at him in mounting horror.  
  
“Savia says the steps of the _jasalin_ are guided by the dancers on the second and third nights, that they reflect the dancers’ undisclosed needs, whatever that means.” Chakotay gets to his feet, pushing his chair back under her desk. “Don’t worry, Captain. Only the senior staff are invited to attend tonight, and tomorrow night it’s just the two of us. Your undisclosed needs are safe with me.”  
  
He heads for the door, turns back just before he triggers the opening mechanism, and says with the barest hint of a dimple, “I’m certainly looking forward to finding out what they are.”  
  
She drops her burning face into her hands as the doors close behind him.  
  
=/\=  
  
She takes one look at the dress her maids have laid out for her to wear and sends Ilona away to bring her some wine.  
  
She’s almost too on edge to hold still as Leda drapes the chemise over her head. It’s much shorter than the one she wore the previous night, barely reaching the tops of her thighs. Studying the dress, she realises this is so that the chemise won’t be seen beneath the alarmingly long split in the silken skirts. Her anxiety ratchets up a couple of notches.  
  
Leda manoeuvres her gently into place before the mirror and fits the corset around her waist, and Kathryn grips the edge of the table and closes her eyes as she feels it hold her, constrain her. The laces tighten, and tighten deliciously more, and she can’t help the ragged breath that escapes her.  
  
“Am I hurting you?” Leda asks solicitously.  
  
“No,” she manages, in a huskier voice than she’d intended, and Leda, satisfied, pulls a little harder.  
  
By the time Leda has tied off the corset, Kathryn is trembling. If she’d thought her aroused state of the night before had been an aberration, one look in the mirror tells her otherwise. Her throat is flushed, her nipples hard and pushing against the thin fabric of the chemise, and she can feel she’s slick between the legs. Flushing, she turns away from the mirror as Ilona brings over the dress.  
  
The silk slips over her head and slides down the length of her body to pool in shimmers of variegated silver and bronze, catching the light and making her exhale. It’s truly beautiful and she’s almost too entranced at the feel of it against her to turn back to the mirror, but Ilona guides her over to it and as she and Leda twitch and smooth the fabric, adjusting it to perfection, Kathryn can’t help but stare.  
  
The skirt is worrying enough; it covers her completely while she’s standing still, but she moves experimentally and realises that each time she takes a step, she’ll be exposing the entire length of one leg, all the way up to her … Kathryn flushes, wishing fervently that the Latavine believed in underwear, and vows to be extra careful. It’s the bodice that causes her the most concern. She’d thought the velvet gown from last night was daring, but this is on a whole new level, and she knows her habit of talking with her hands is not going to serve her well tonight – one too-expansive movement of her arm, and she’s going to spill right out of this dress. She sucks in a breath as deep as the corset allows, and flinches at the alarming swell of her breasts against the silk. “Is there a wrap I can wear?” she asks hopefully, but Leda shakes her head.  
  
She is coiffed and made-up, helped into her shoes, and led down the long gilded hallway to the carved double doors. _Think of the pergium_ , she reminds herself with each step, as the skirts curl sinuously around her legs, her naked thigh exposed to cooled air with each movement. She tries to ignore the caress of silk against her overheated skin, the way it contrasts with the firm embrace of the corset. She has never felt so aware of her own body, or so out of her mind.  
  
=/\=  
  
The doors swing slowly open and Kathryn utters a brief, silent invocation for strength as she steps into the banquet hall. The fanfare is less jarring this time, the number of people inside less daunting, but the ordeal ahead of her puts a knot in her throat. She straightens her spine, praying her captain’s mask is holding, curves her lips upward and accepts the Chancellor’s offered hand.  
  
She has arrived as late as possible to minimise the time she’ll need to spend avoiding the eyes of her senior staff – Tuvok remains on the bridge but Harry and Tom have cajoled B’Elanna into coming, while Neelix and Kes wouldn’t miss this for the world – and she firmly intends to leave as soon as the dreaded _jasalin_ has been performed.  
  
But that only means that Jarin leads her directly to their table and she comes face to face with Chakotay before she’s convinced her mask is completely in place. This time he isn’t engrossed in talking to Savia as she arrives, and although she tries not to look at him as she approaches the table, her gaze is drawn to his through some perverse form of magnetism. They lock eyes and her knees almost buckle from the hot wave of lust that slams through her. She wonders half-seriously if Ilona put something in her wine; but if so, it appears Chakotay has also been drinking it. He tracks her every move, the undisguised hunger in his eyes scorching the air between them. She sucks in air but the corset compresses her lungs and she gasps, her head light, her belly tightening. Her pulse flutters like something small and scared and caged, and she thinks, _I have to get control of this_.  
  
She holds her skirts together as she sinks into her chair and keeps her spine straight. She wrenches her gaze away from Chakotay and nods a greeting to Savia, not trusting her voice.  
  
“You look _delicious_ , Captain,” Savia whispers loudly as Kathryn fidgets with a fold of tablecloth and wishes she had another glass of wine. “Don’t you think so, Chakotay?”  
  
Chakotay says nothing.  
  
“I knew that dress would be perfect for you,” Savia continues, her grey eyes sparkling. “I’m so glad I chose it.”  
  
“You’re responsible for this?” Kathryn blurts without thinking, then clamps down on her tongue.  
  
“Guilty,” Savia twinkles at her, then rises to speak the ritual words that begin the banquet.  
  
Kathryn risks another glance at her first officer, catches the heat in his eyes and feels the sharp answering throb between her legs, and wishes she hadn’t.  
  
=/\=  
  
Kathryn is only permitted an hour of Jarin’s time on their second morning before he has to attend to other responsibilities and Savia arrives to claim her company. Tucking Kathryn’s arm in hers, Savia pats her hand possessively. “I’m told you’re fond of a bath,” she lilts, and Kathryn thinks darkly that Chakotay will be lucky to live past today. “We’re going to the pools. You’ll _love_ it,” she promises.  
  
Half an hour later, lounging naked in a natural hot spring with Savia and several other ladies of the court, surrounded by carefully-tended greenery and secluded by artfully placed piles of boulders, Kathryn grudgingly admits to herself that Savia was right. The water, heated to the perfect temperature, smells faintly of roses and feels as soft against her skin as the silk dress she wore the night before. She tips her head back against the edge of the pool and closes her eyes.  
  
At first she thinks she’s dreaming, that her sleepless nights have caught up with her and she’s drowsed off in the warm water. But the light touch on the outer curve of her breast grows more purposeful, and, startled, she opens her eyes. Savia is watching her with smoky grey eyes, the tip of her finger tracing inward to circle Kathryn’s nipple. She seems unconcerned that Kathryn is looking back at her. For her part, Kathryn doesn’t understand why she herself isn’t protesting. It’s that thought that jolts her out of her trance and she parts her lips to speak, but another hand slides smoothly from her knee to her inner thigh and she loses her voice.  
  
Savia smiles, bends closer. Her lips almost touch Kathryn’s ear as she whispers, “I did promise you’d love it,” and Kathryn shivers at the tickle of her breath. Savia’s other hand slides into her hair, her nails scraping gently against Kathryn’s scalp, and the finger that touches her nipple is joined by another, rolling the pink bud taut as Savia’s teeth sink lightly into her neck and her other hand dips between her legs.  
  
_Her other hand_.  
  
Kathryn’s eyes, half-closed, now open wide. A hand in her hair, a hand on her breast, and one between her legs, stroking, teasing… And now another, smoothing over her abdomen, and Savia’s lips on her throat, and a mouth on her other breast, sucking and licking at the nipple until Kathryn can’t help the moan that escapes her lips.  
  
“Stop,” she gasps, and Savia and her unnamed conspirator slowly pull back. Savia’s eyes slide to the other woman, who calmly wades away through the water. Kathryn’s gaze follows her, not knowing whether she wants to demand explanations or call the woman back.  
  
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Savia says, her voice undercut with amusement. “We didn’t intend to cause you any distress.”  
  
Kathryn finds her voice. “I’m not distressed,” she answers, trying to calm her breathing. “Just a little … shocked.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
She tries to explain. “There are elements of your culture that are very reminiscent of my own, several hundred years ago. But that was a time, on my world, when people were not nearly so … open about sexuality. Your society is turning out differently than I expected, and I guess I’m finding myself a little off-balance.”  
  
Savia almost giggles. “Perhaps you’d be finding us less shocking now if you’d spent time with me yesterday, learning about our culture. I’ve explained many of our ways to your delightful first officer. He doesn’t seem to be having any trouble finding his balance.”  
  
Kathryn can’t help stiffening. “Commander Chakotay has always been interested in anthropology. And his cultural background is different to mine. I suppose some traditions die hard.”  
  
“Well,” Savia settles herself comfortably on the ledge beside Kathryn, taking her hand between her own, “I, for one, appreciate your willingness to conform to our traditions. And perhaps I understand you a little better now, too.”  
  
Kathryn tries to concentrate on Savia’s words, rather than the way the other woman is threading her fingers through her own, stroking her wrist with her fingertips, drawing her nails lightly along the inside of Kathryn’s arm … She bites her lip. “How so?” she manages.  
  
“You’re terribly resistant to the _jasalin_ ,” Savia answers frankly. “Most of the people we’ve invited to undertake the diplomatic ritual have embraced it quite whole-heartedly. It’s supposed to be pleasurable, Captain, and yet you seem determined to deny yourself pleasure.”  
  
Kathryn tugs firmly at her hand until it slides out of Savia’s grasp and shifts slightly away from her on the ledge, not caring that she’s proving the other woman’s point. She’s aware she sounds slightly defensive as she answers, “My position precludes me from engaging in the kind of pleasure you’re referring to.”  
  
“Ah, yes, your regulations. Your commander explained them to me. But surely they only apply to your crew. Can’t you seek pleasure elsewhere?”  
  
“I … could. There’s no rule preventing it, as long as medical clearance is obtained, but I can’t …” She breaks off, tries again. “We have a very long journey ahead of us. And I can’t afford to get distracted.”  
  
“You must be very lonely,” Savia says softly, and Kathryn is horrified to realise that her eyes are filling. She swallows hard against the ache in her throat.  
  
“Yes,” she can’t help admitting, “sometimes, I am.”  
  
Savia tucks Kathryn’s hair behind her ear. “Sometimes,” she offers, “being distracted is the whole point. You do have a long road to travel, Captain. Don’t be so focused on reaching the end of it that you forget to live in the meantime.”  
  
=/\=  
  
She pours the wine and carries it carefully, dipping into a curtsey to allow Chakotay to take it from her. He sips, and she steels herself for the touch she knows is coming.  
  
One finger runs lightly from just below her ear, down the length of her neck, coming to rest in the hollow of her throat. She presses her lips together and moves back to her seat, hiding her shaking hands under the table. She’s only slightly gratified to note that Chakotay’s hands aren’t exactly steady either.  
  
She gulps wine, and reminds herself sharply not to overdo it. This is not the place to lose her inhibitions.  
  
She gets through the rest of the banquet, steeling herself whenever Chakotay touches her. He mimics exactly the way Jarin touches Savia: a whisper of fingertips against her temple, her sternum, and – most disconcertingly, but she holds it together – her lips. It’s not until they reach dessert that Kathryn’s carefully constructed façade almost crumbles.  
  
Savia presents Jarin with a small cup of a sorbet-like confection, and he takes it and runs his finger from shoulder to cleavage, along the edge of her deeply-scooped, very low-cut neckline. Her neckline which is almost as low-cut as Kathryn’s own. She watches as Savia shivers in response, her eyes briefly sliding shut.  
  
_I can’t do this_ , she thinks.  
  
She turns to Chakotay and realises he’s already looking at her. He’s telling her with his eyes that he won’t do anything that makes her uncomfortable; he’ll follow her lead. And it’s that look that steels her. She gives him a tiny, barely-perceptible nod and stands, scoops up the sorbet and presents it to him.  
  
_Grant me one miracle_ , she appeals to a god she doesn’t believe in, a _nd let Paris and Kim be looking in the opposite direction right now_.  
  
She closes her eyes.  
  
The first touch on her shoulder makes her flinch, ever so slightly. He pauses, waits for the firming of her lips, then trails his fingers lightly and oh, so carefully, over the outer edge of her collarbone and across the swell of her breast. His touch hesitates ever so slightly where the fabric of her dress barely covers her nipple and Kathryn hisses out a breath, and then he continues downward, resting briefly in the dip between her breasts before slowly pulling his hand away. She opens her eyes. He’s watching her, his expression tightly closed. “Okay?” he whispers, and she nods and straightens her trembling legs, returning to her seat.  
  
She wonders if the flush on her skin is as obvious as the hitch in her breathing, and as the banquet finally ends and Savia stands to announce the beginning of the _jasalin_ , she wonders how she’s going to get through this dance with a shred of her dignity intact.  
  
=/\=  
  
She lies rigid in bed. The covers are pulled up to her chin and her hands are clasped firmly together atop them. She’s exhausted, but she’s been lying here for hours and sleep won’t come.  
  
Giving up, she throws off the covers and goes into the bathroom to draw a bath. There’s a bottle of foaming soap on the counter and she pours a few drops into the water, sinks into it and closes her eyes. The soap smells faintly of lavender and tingles lightly as it laps against her skin.  
  
She tries not to think of the dance, but her mind seems determined to go there and she can’t help her hands drifting over her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Gritting her teeth, she opens her legs and dips her fingers between them, stroking herself, but she’s never been particularly adept at pleasuring herself and her orgasm is weak and unsatisfying, leaving her more worked up than before, and she wishes she hadn’t bothered. Frustrated, she lets herself submerge, holding her breath until she can’t anymore, and then she drags herself out of the bath, dresses in her uniform and calls for a beam-out to her ship.  
  
=/\=  
  
Her legs are trembling as the dance begins and she can’t seem to let her body loosen enough to make her movements flow. She remembers what Savia told her – that tonight she’s expected to follow the other couple’s improvisations – and her shoulders tighten with apprehension. She trusts Jarin a little, enough to hope his interest in diplomatic relations will encourage him to keep the dance circumspect, but his wife is a different proposition.  
  
“Try to relax,” Chakotay murmurs to her as she steps on his foot for the third time.  
  
“Easy for you to say.” She spins slowly outward, her skirts falling dangerously away over her leading leg, feels his fingers wrap over hers and turns back into his hold. “You’re not the one being pawed at and wearing next to nothing.”  
  
She feels him tense against her. “I’m following the ritual, Captain, as you ordered. If I’m making you uncomfortable we can call it quits right now.”  
  
“I didn’t mean it to come out that way,” she whispers, instantly regretful. “I’m just feeling a little … exposed.” She glances down at herself. “Literally.”  
  
Chakotay’s mouth quirks in response. “To be honest,” he says in a low voice as he walks in a circle behind her, “that’s not exactly making _me_ comfortable, either.”  
  
She shivers a little as his fingers skate down her arm and twine with hers. “You hide it well.”  
  
“Then let me assure you, Kathryn,” he clasps a hand round her waist, bringing her flush against him, looking down at her, “I’m in no way unaffected.”  
  
“I can feel that,” she blurts, then her eyes widen in chagrin. _Whatever possessed you to say that_? she rages at herself.  
  
He looks like he’s trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin as she steps back from him, turning her hips to the side as he holds her elbow. Then he glances over at the other couple and his smirk fades. “Uh, Kathryn? You remember that thing Savia mentioned about the dance evolving?”  
  
“Yes,” she says with trepidation.  
  
“I think it just evolved.”  
  
He turns her to face Jarin and Savia and she can’t help it; her mouth drops open. They’ve given up all pretence of placing distance between them and are moulded at the hips. The basic steps of the dance are the same; they’re just performing them melded together. Jarin’s hand rests low on Savia’s back and her left arm is raised around his shoulder, her fingers curled into his hair.  
  
Savia turns her head and raises an expectant eyebrow, and Kathryn curses under her breath. “We have to imitate them.”  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“Then this is going to be fine,” he murmurs, and pulls her close.  
  
She feels his leg push between her thighs as he dips her slightly backward, following the other couple’s moves. Her silken skirt sways from the waist, baring her entire leg as his hand slides over her hip, and she hears him make a sound in his throat as his fingers encounter bare skin. She can’t help the soft whimper that escapes her as his thigh presses _right there_ against her centre. She wonders if he can feel how soaked she is through her skirt.  
  
He tugs her back upright, bringing their hips into almost perfect alignment as he takes her hands and raises them above her head, his fingers encircling her wrists, one hand sliding down her arm. Glancing quickly at Savia to make sure she’s still on cue, Kathryn lets one arm curl around the back of Chakotay’s neck; the other, held in his hand, she lets him bring slowly down to bend behind her waist. The sleeve of her dress slips off her lowered shoulder and she hears him suck in a breath.  
  
“What is it?” she whispers urgently.  
  
“Wardrobe malfunction,” he mutters. She looks down and realises that last move has caused her bodice to slip down on one side. Her right breast is exposed, the nipple taut with obvious arousal.  
  
“Help me,” she says, mortified, and he brings their joined hands around from behind her back, lifting them to his chest, and slips his index finger carefully under her bodice, twitching it back into place. His finger brushes her nipple and she can’t suppress a low, throaty moan. She closes her eyes, humiliation staining her cheeks.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, flushing. “Accident.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” she manages huskily as the music draws to a close. She steps back from him, dropping into the curtsey that finishes the dance, not daring to look at the other couple for fear of what position she’ll be expected to mimic. Then, drawing herself as straight as she can, she forces her trembling legs to carry her from the banquet hall and as far away from watching eyes as she can go.  
  
=/\=  
  
It’s 0300 when she transports back to the ship. Tuvok has command, and he stands to greet her as she walks onto the bridge. “Captain, I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”  
  
“Trouble sleeping,” she answers tersely, not stopping. “I’ll be in my ready room.”  
  
Barely fifteen minutes pass before Tuvok enters, standing before her desk.  
  
“Yes?” she snaps.  
  
“Captain, I couldn’t help but notice that you appear ill at ease. Is there anything I can assist you with?”  
  
“No,” she says shortly, then drops her head into her hands. “Sorry, Tuvok. I don’t mean to be rude. I have difficulty sleeping when I’m not onboard Voyager.”  
  
He remains standing in front of her, silent, and finally she looks up and realises he’s giving her an even look. “Was there something else, Lieutenant?”  
  
To her surprise, he sits down without being invited – possibly a first – and steeples his fingers in front of him, watching her calmly. “I was, in fact, about to ask you the same question, Captain.”  
  
“Something else?” she says. “All right. I will admit I’m having a little trouble with the Latavine interpretation of diplomacy, but it’s nothing to worry about.”  
  
“Trouble?” he repeats.  
  
“Difficulty,” she amends, then sighs. “You haven’t attended the banquets, Tuvok. Let’s just say there are some aspects of the ritual that I’m finding a little discomfiting.”  
  
“Are you referring to the requirement that you behave in a subservient manner toward Commander Chakotay, or that you must allow him to touch you?”  
  
Her mouth opens and she shuts it with a snap. “Both,” she finally grates out.  
  
“Perhaps I can offer you counsel,” he suggests. “On the first matter, I’m sure it is clear to both you and the Commander that you are acting out a ritual defined by an alien species. Your feigned deference bears no similarity to your actual relationship to the Commander, and I do not believe it will have any impact on his respect for you or his commitment to serve you as Captain.”  
  
_So why is it so damned exciting_? she wonders, and her eyes widen. _Where did_ that _come from_?  
  
Tuvok, apparently oblivious (though she knows better than to believe he hasn’t catalogued her reaction), continues, “As for the physical contact, your tendency to touch some members of your crew demonstrates that you are yourself a particularly tactile individual. Yet there are limited opportunities for you to enjoy reciprocal contact. Perhaps you should consider this such an opportunity.”  
  
“Lie back and think of Starfleet, then?” she snaps acerbically, then cringes. “I apologise again, Tuvok. It’s just that – this isn’t exactly the same kind of touching. This is much more…” she hesitates, “intimate.”  
  
“Then your concern is related to exploring that aspect of your relationship with Commander Chakotay.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“It may surprise you to know, Captain, that I am not unaware of the complexities of your association with the Commander. I have not mentioned it previously as it was neither relevant nor appropriate. However, given his evident regard for you, the obvious development of your friendship during your recent enforced period of cohabitation while quarantined, and the fact that you have now been necessarily estranged from the possibility of an intimate relationship for two and a half years, it is not unreasonable to expect that you might have considered the Commander as a potential sexual partner.”  
  
Kathryn almost chokes.  
  
Tuvok sails smoothly on. “I am aware of your loyalty to your fiancé, Captain, as well as your resolve to comply with Starfleet’s fraternisation protocols. Nonetheless, I believe that in our unique circumstances, Starfleet would not object to a more relaxed interpretation of the rules. In addition, humans, like many other species, require intimate companionship to function at peak efficiency, and the Commander would be –”  
  
“Stop!” Kathryn throws up a hand, thinking wildly, _I cannot take this anymore_. She sucks in a deep breath. “Tuvok, I can see you’ve given this a lot of logical thought, and I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, but this discussion is _still_ neither relevant nor appropriate. I cannot have a – a sexual relationship with my first officer. It just wouldn’t be _right_.”  
  
“May I enquire as to your reasoning, Captain?”  
  
She simply can’t believe she is having this conversation with _Tuvok_ , of all people, and she can’t believe she’s actually going to answer him either, but – “It’s too risky. I need all my focus on making sure we survive and get home. I can’t afford to be preoccupied with some _love affair_.”  
  
Tuvok raises an eyebrow. “I don’t believe I mentioned a love affair. My argument was based on the human need for sexual contact.”  
  
She feels the flush work up from under her collar. “Oh.”  
  
“Your bond with your fiancé would not require dissolution in order to satisfy your physical needs.”  
  
“I gave up on Mark the minute I destroyed that array,” she says, her voice low. “It took me a while to accept it, yes, but as you said, it’s been two and a half years. I don’t believe he would still be waiting for me even if we got home tomorrow, and…” she bites her lip, “I don’t believe I’d want him to. My feelings for him have changed.”  
  
“And your feelings for the Commander?” Tuvok asks quietly.  
  
“They’re … different.” She clamps her mouth shut.  
  
“I see.”  
  
“Do you?” She rises and begins to pace agitatedly. “We were so close on that damned planet, Tuvok. A few more days, God, a few more _hours_ and everything would have changed between us. And then Voyager was back for us and we had to abandon those possibilities and learn to work together as Captain and XO again. It wasn’t easy,” she says on a half-sob, turning to him. “It was terribly hard, but we did it. We pushed it all aside, and we’re friends, _good_ friends, and I could ignore everything else we might have been. And then we meet the Latavine and I agree to their godforsaken ritual and now I’m finding it so very difficult to ignore this, this _potential_ between us, and you wonder why I’m _ill at ease_!”  
  
Her voice rises almost to a shout on the last few words, and she slumps back into her chair, her head dropping into her hands, fingers digging into her hair. “I don’t know what to do,” she mumbles.  
  
After a long moment she feels a cool touch on her wrist and she looks up into Tuvok’s solemn eyes. “I understand your concerns, but I trust your judgement, Captain,” he tells her. “And for the record, I do not believe an intimate relationship with Commander Chakotay, be it a sexual arrangement or a love affair, would hinder your focus on getting this ship home. But whichever decision you make, you will have my support.”


	3. Three

The afternoon sun filters lazily through the slatted roof of her balcony, and Kathryn lets her eyes drift closed. The cup of _sincha_ cools on the small table beside her as she stretches her arms above her head and sighs.  
  
She is so tired, bone-deep exhausted, but she can’t stop her mind churning. She thinks of Savia’s words after those surreal moments in the bathing pools - _don’t be so focused on the end of your journey that you forget to live_ – and the extraordinary conversation with Tuvok in the early hours. She thinks of Chakotay – _do you trust me_? – and the heat in his eyes when he looks at her. She remembers the way he’d accidentally touched her and the way she’d so desperately wanted him to touch her again.  
  
She thinks about his silent acquiescence to the barriers she’d thrown up when they’d been rescued from the planet, the way he stands by her, giving her everything, asking nothing in return, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut against the sudden rush of emotion filling her chest.  
  
She wonders if Chakotay is thinking about her.  
  
_One more night_ , she promises herself. _Just get through this one last night and everything can go back to normal_.  
  
The problem is, she’s not sure she wants it to.  
  
=/\=  
  
Sitting in her dressing room a few hours later as Ilona puts the finishing touches on her hair, she finds herself desperately wishing for normal.  
  
Normal is not the flimsy excuse for a dress, flesh-coloured and translucent, that lies oh-so-innocently on the love-seat, mocking her with its very existence. Normal is not Leda’s explanation that there will be no chemise tonight and the whole point of this dress is that it goes _under_ the corset. And normal is definitely not the desertion of her maids, once the cursed dress is on and the corset fitted loosely over the top of it, and their smiling replies to her inquiry that this is all part of the ritual.  
  
_Ritual_ , she thinks sourly. If she never hears the word again it’ll be too –  
  
“Kathryn?”  
  
_Perfect_ , she thinks. _Just perfect_. She grabs the robe she was wearing moments before and ties it securely around her waist.  
  
“What are you doing here, Chakotay?”  
  
“Your friend Leda fetched me.” His gaze wanders over her elegantly-dressed hair, her lightly-powdered face, her pink-pouted lips. “She, uh, she said I’m to finish helping you dress.”  
  
“Oh, _did_ she?”  
  
And suddenly she doesn’t know whether to scream, throw something or break down in tears. _This is not fair_. For two days and nights now the Latavine have pushed her, tested her, worn down her forbearance and pummelled her self-restraint, and now _this_?  
  
Being who she is, she instead closes her eyes, takes a slow, deep breath, and controls her voice. “Fine. The sooner you lace me up, the sooner we can get this damned ritual over with. Come over here.” Resolutely, she throws off the robe and turns her back to her first officer, bracing her hands on the edge of the vanity.  
  
“Lace … you up?” He hasn’t moved.  
  
She glances at his reflection in the mirror before her. He’s wearing the boots, breeches and loose white shirt she expects, but clearly hasn’t had time to put on the cravat and frock-coat. The shirt is open at the neck, and she tries not to look at that golden-skinned expanse of chest. “The corset, Commander. You need to tie off my corset.”  
  
His eyes can’t seem to meet hers in the mirror; he’s gazing at a point somewhere over her head.  
  
She sighs, impatiently. “Grab hold of the loops in the middle and pull, readjust the top and bottom laces, pull again. I’ll tell you when it’s tight enough.”  
  
“Right,” he says, and walks slowly toward her. She feels him take hold of the loops. The satin slithers through the eyelets as he tugs carefully on the ribbons. The corset draws in a little.  
  
“Tighter.”  
  
He reaches up to adjust the top laces, does the same with the lower half. He pulls on the loops again and she begins to feel that welcoming constriction. She exhales quietly. He stops. “Is that enough?”  
  
“No.” It comes out a little gravelly. “It needs to be much tighter. Pull harder.”  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you.” Is she imagining the rasp in his voice?  
  
She feels his fingers brush against the gossamer fabric of her dress as he adjusts the ribbons again. And then he pulls, and _oh, God_. She closes her eyes, her lips parting as the boning presses firm against her ribs. Her fingers tense on the edge of the table. “More,” she whispers.  
  
She hears him mutter something under her breath and looks at his reflection. His jaw is knotted and she thinks that she’s glad his eyes are lowered so she can’t see the intensity she knows is in them. She glances at herself: bent slightly forward, her flushed and rigid nipples on clear display through the almost-transparent chiffon of her bodice. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and there’s an obvious glow on her cheekbones. She feels the delicious drag of the stays as the corset tightens further, and she can’t help it. She moans.  
  
His eyes flash immediately to hers. “Are you all right?”  
  
She can’t speak; she can only nod.  
  
“Should I stop?” She’s definitely not imagining that whiskey undertone to his voice now.  
  
“A little more,” she breathes. She watches as his gaze wanders down the line of her back, over the exaggerated curve of her hips, and unconsciously she arches her spine, shifts her legs a little further apart. His eyes darken.  
  
He takes hold of the loops with one hand, winding them around his palm for leverage, and places his free hand at the base of her spine. She braces, and he gives a long, controlled pull on the stays. She feels her lungs tighten, her skin flush, a throbbing ache between her legs. “Oh, God,” she groans.  
  
He leans in, and the hand not holding the stays flattens on her lower back just below the bottom edge of the corset and strokes slowly over the upper curve of her ass. She pushes up against his hand and hears him hiss through his teeth.  
  
“Perfect,” she whimpers, “it’s perfect. You can tie it off now.”  
  
He does, quickly, and she holds still until he’s finished and then starts to straighten, only to be firmly stopped by a palm against her back. “Don’t move,” he says, his voice rough.

 She stills, holding her breath.  
  
She feels the feathery drift of his fingers over her bare upper back, and then he leans in and places his mouth against the nape of her neck, his teeth closing lightly around the first knob of her spine. She gasps, and his lips trace a path from the base of her neck to the top of the corset. She’s trembling. His fingers slide over the laced insert, burning her skin through the ribbon and chiffon, and come to rest on her hip. His tongue licks back up along her spine and his fingers start to gather the fabric of her skirt, bunching it as the hem creeps upward. His lips graze the side of her neck and she moans, tipping her head to the side to give him access. The hand on her hip slides forward and down and his other hand smooths up the front of her corset, and then he’s cupping her breast as his fingers dip slowly between her thighs, and she’s shaking so hard she can barely stay standing -  
  
“Excuse me.”  
  
His fingers still at Leda’s voice and Kathryn can’t help a small squeak of frustration, and then his hands and his mouth are withdrawing from her body, smoothing the skirt into place as he steps back from her.  
  
“I’m sorry,” the maid says softly, her eyes averted. “Commander Chakotay, I was sent to ask you to finish dressing. The banquet is about to start.”  
  
Chakotay’s gaze meets Kathryn’s in the mirror and she thinks that she might combust from the naked desire in his eyes.  
  
“We’ll finish this later,” he tells her, and turns away.  
  
Her conscience is already scolding her, but her treacherous, licentious body is loudly demanding that he keep his promise.  
  
=/\=  
  
Her entire body is trembling as she stares at herself in the mirror and thinks that there’s no way, no way in _hell_ , that she can go into that banquet hall looking like this.  
  
The bodice leaves nothing to the imagination; a layer of silk chiffon barely covers the lower curve of her breasts, and her nipples are plainly visible. At first she thinks the skirt isn’t so bad – it’s so voluminous that despite the sheerness of the fabric, nothing is visible beneath it. But then she moves and the light falls behind her, outlining her body, and the breeze from the open window ruffles the soft fabric and peels it away along the split that runs the length of her leg, and she realises that she might as well be naked.  
  
In this moment, she wishes she had never heard of the Latavine.  
  
And yet, when Leda indicates it’s time to leave, Kathryn gathers her skirts, tilts up her chin, and follows the dressing-maids along the corridor and through the carved double doors, into the banquet hall. She takes Jarin’s arm and walks with measured steps past all the many eyes that watch her, and when they reach their table she doesn’t hide from the long, hot stare Chakotay levels at her.  
  
At least this time she knows none of her crew are here. If she has to parade around half-naked with her first officer’s hands all over her, at least none of them will be watching. _Small mercies_ , Kathryn thinks darkly as she sips her wine.  
  
The starter course is some kind of pâté spread on tiny herbed crackers. Kathryn eyes it doubtfully; the previous nights’ canapés were handled with tongs, but she can’t see how this… Then Savia picks up one of the crackers in her fingers and feeds it directly to Jarin. It’s barely a mouthful, and she watches as Jarin’s lips close over Savia’s fingers and he licks them clean.  
  
Her own fingers are shaking as she selects a canapé and offers it to Chakotay. He holds her wrist lightly in one hand and dips his head to take it from her. His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist as his tongue curls over her fingers, and she bites her lip so hard she draws blood. She returns to her seat and gulps more wine.  
  
The meal progresses, and she endures caresses over her face, her throat, the side of her breast. Following Jarin’s lead, Chakotay presses his lips to her temple, the corner of her mouth, her sternum. When she watches how Savia serves Jarin the final course, she almost calls for another bottle.  
  
Steeling herself, she copies Savia’s moves, sliding onto Chakotay’s lap and holding up a fresh spear of a fruit that looks like asparagus but tastes like mango. His hands slide onto her hips as he nibbles on it. She can feel them burning her through the fine layers of her skirt, and when she shifts a little she feels them tighten almost painfully. “Don’t do that,” he whispers. His erection swells rock-hard between her thighs and she stills, heart thumping. He licks the juice from her fingers and then, imitating Jarin, leans in and licks a path from her collarbone to her jaw. Kathryn’s head tips back and her eyes close. It takes every last ounce of her willpower to stifle the moan that threatens to climb out of her throat.  
  
Then his big hands are lifting her and placing her gently beside his chair, and Savia is standing and calling for the _jasalin_.  
  
=/\=  
  
Buttoned up and uniformed in the safety of her ready room, she finishes reading the PADD detailing their successful trades with the Latavine and pulls her legs underneath her on the sofa. On the planet below, her crew are enjoying the shore leave Chakotay has arranged for them. For herself, she has no intention of ever setting foot on Latavan again.  
  
She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes; she’s beyond exhausted, her head pounding, and she predicts another restless night of sleep tonight and for many nights to come.  
  
She doesn’t know where to lay the blame for her behaviour the night before: was it the dress, the corset? The _jasalin_? The way he looked at her, the way he touched her?  
  
A combination of all of those things, mixed with her own, unforgivable weakness?  
  
Whatever possessed her? And what, exactly, is she supposed to do about it now?  
  
=/\=  
  
The tribal drumbeat stirs her blood, and the moves of the dance are more intimate, the contact more lingering than the night before. He holds her close against his body, one hand cradling her hip, the fingers of the other entwined with hers. She’s grateful for the opportunity to hide her face against his chest, trusting him to lead her through whatever dangerous steps Jarin and Savia are performing. She’s acting on instinct alone, her senses focused entirely on his nearness, his scent and the way some kind of fire is licking over her skin wherever he touches her. As the music winds to an end she starts to move into the formal curtsey, but he pulls her back against him. She glances at the other couple and almost stumbles.  
  
“Trust me,” Chakotay whispers, and she gives him a short nod. His hand slides inside the split in her skirt, curving over her ass and under her thigh to wind her leg around his hip, and a helpless, inappropriate giggle bubbles up inside her. He holds her hips against his until the music stops, and as soon as he releases her she steps back, away from him.  
  
“I need some air,” she mutters wildly, and heads directly for the open balcony doors.  
  
The sticky night air does nothing to cool her skin, but at least she’s alone. Kathryn makes her way to a corner of the terrace out of direct sight, and leans against the railing. She tries to breathe deeply to calm her thudding heart but the corset forces her to take short, shallow breaths. She thinks of Chakotay’s strong hands pulling at her stays, moving over her body, and her moan is involuntary and filled with want.  
  
“You drive me crazy when you make that sound.”  
  
Somehow, she’s not surprised to hear his voice. “I can’t help it,” she whispers, low and desperate, and she tilts her head as he touches warm lips to her neck. He curves his big hands around her narrowed waist; she feels that his fingers and thumbs almost meet, and the knowledge makes her knees weak. And then his hands are moving, one upward, his palm rubbing roughly against her hypersensitive nipples, the other down, slipping inside her skirts. His long fingers slide inside her, his thumb pressing her clitoris, and she makes a sound in her throat that’s something like a growl.  
  
“So wet, Kathryn,” he murmurs, and she groans in answer, pushing her hips against his hand. “I want to taste you,” he whispers, “but I’m not sure I can wait. I need to fuck you, _right now_. I'm going to fill you up and feel you tight around me.”  
  
The things he’s saying – she never imagined what it would do to her, hearing these words of lust and possession from his lips. Her breath hitches. She lifts her arms and twines them around his neck, craning backward and pulling his mouth to hers. Their tongues tangle, the kiss almost bruising, and she’s panting for breath. He breaks away to sink his teeth into the side of her neck, his fingers moving more forcefully inside her.  
  
“I’d love to hold you down,” he rasps in her ear, “let down your hair and wrap my hands in it while I fuck that pretty mouth.”  
  
She bucks into his hand and groans his name. She’s on the verge. He pulls his hand away and she almost sobs. But then he’s turning her, his hands on her waist, lifting her and pushing her back against the balcony wall. “Wrap your legs around me,” he hisses, “and hold on.”  
  
She obeys him instantly, and her reward is the hard, insistent thrust of his cock inside her, all the way inside her as she gasps and shakes in his arms.  
  
“Chakotay,” she pleads as he draws out from her, her inner walls grasping greedily at him, “God, Chakotay, fuck me, please…”  
  
In answer, he drives in, _hard_ , and she bites down on his shoulder to stifle her screams, her arms tightening around him. Out again, in, so hard and long and deep she isn’t sure she can survive it, and then he changes his angle slightly and the pure electric friction sends her flying, screaming over the edge, and she doesn’t care about anything other than the fevered waves of pleasure that are shaking her entire body.  
  
She hears him groan in her ear, “ _Kathryn_ ,” and with one last desperate thrust he’s emptying himself inside her, shuddering against her with his face against her breasts. She moans a little at the sensation, fingers uncurling from his shoulders to stroke gently at the back of his neck. When he’s stopped trembling, he raises his head and looks at her, and she can’t quite define the emotion in his eyes.  
  
They stare at each other without words, both of them gasping for breath, and the silence grows between them until her fingers still and her legs unwind from his hips. He pulls back from her, steadying her, and she takes advantage of the space between them to slip away, ignoring him calling after her. Hastily readjusting her disarranged clothing, trying to ignore his seed spilling down the inside of her thigh, she weaves through the banquet hall and back to the safety of her room.  
  
=/\=  
  
He’d come after her, of course, when she fled the banquet hall, but she’d locked her door and instructed her maids not to answer his demands for entry, and eventually he’d taken the hint from her silence and gone away. She’d lain stiff in bed, reciting Starfleet regulations in her head and trying to pull together the scattered shreds of her self-control. At 0400 she’d given up on sleep and transported back to her ready room, where she’s been sequestered ever since.  
  
She hasn’t heard from him; she knows he’s spent the morning touring museums with Savia and isn’t due back onboard until later. It’s now well after ship’s noon and she has begun to hope she might be able to continue avoiding him. At least until she can hide behind her uniform again; at least until she can stop the helpless images invading her mind: of his hands on her body, his mouth on hers, his powerful body driving between her thighs as she clung to him… She moans, her head dropping back, and just as she gives into the memory, her door chimes.  
  
“Come,” she says, huskily.  
  
“Captain,” Chakotay greets her formally, standing before her desk with his hands clasped behind his back.  
  
She jerks upright. “Report, Commander.”  
  
“I’ve completed my study of Latavine society, and was hoping you could spare some time for me to relay my impressions.”  
  
“I think I’ve learned enough about Latavine society for a lifetime,” she retorts before she can stop herself, then cringes. She risks a glance at him and realises he’s hiding a smile. “Something funny, Commander?” she snaps.  
  
The smile broadens as he looks at her, and she leaps up from her chair to pace, unable to meet his eyes.  
  
“Are you all right, Captain?” he asks, his voice smooth and slightly amused. “You seem a little on edge.”  
  
She whips around to glare at him. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Are you sure?” His gaze rakes her from head to foot. He’s still smiling but when he raises his eyes to hers she’s almost punched backward by the intensity in them. “Because I have a couple of suggestions, if you need to relax.”  
  
A wave of heat pulses through her and she sways slightly toward him. Her fists curl from the effort of not reaching for him. She shakes her head, turning her back, and hears him sigh.  
  
“All right,” he says quietly. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”  
  
She turns back. He’s almost to the door, and she’s almost home free, and everything in her life is about to return to normal, and suddenly she can’t bear it.  
  
“Commander.”  
  
He stops just short of the triggering mechanism and turns. “Yes, Captain?”  
  
_Don’t forget to live_.  
  
She swallows, takes a step toward him. “Join me for dinner tonight?”  
  
He answers cautiously. “When and where?”  
  
“Holodeck One, 1900 hours,” she says. She can’t seem to stop herself from moving closer. “I have a holonovel I like to run sometimes.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yes. It’s a Gothic romance.” She drifts to a stop a few paces from him, lowers her eyelashes. “I like to wear period costume.”  
  
“Oh,” he says in an entirely different tone. He takes a step closer to her. “Well, I’d be very happy to oblige your preferences, Kathryn. I’m sure I can find something suitable in the replicator files.”  
  
“Try looking under Janeway Beta-Pi-One,” she murmurs. “See you then, Commander.”  
  
The wolfish grin he sends her way as he turns back to the door is altogether darker and more savage than his earlier smile. “See you then, Captain.”  
  
“Oh, and Chakotay?”  
  
He looks back.  
  
She raises her eyes to his, lets him take in her dilated pupils, the subtle arch of her back, the curve of her hips. “Be there a little early,” she says, not hiding the purr in her voice. “I’m going to need your help to dress.”

**Author's Note:**

> crimsonsupernova made this [moodboard](http://supernovacoffee.tumblr.com/post/172873772576/fanfic-moodboard-lacedbound-by-mia-cooper) to accompany Laced and Bound and I LOVE IT.


End file.
